A Tale of Two Worlds: Being A First-Gen American

Jessica Innis
Sep 3, 2018 · 6 min read

Stretching my arms across the length of the queen sized bed, the net had decided to take my arms captive. Startled, I woke up in a panic to pull them out. I checked my arms and legs to see if there were any bug bites, either from mosquitoes or fire red ants. I glanced over the net to see if any bugs had decided to linger on the perimeter. Once it was clear, I knew that I could then exit. On my way to the bathroom, I flipped the light switch hoping that the electric was running. It would shut off randomly throughout the day. Grabbing my toothbrush, I then checked the sink faucet to see whether the water was on. Usually, it was, in the morning, but sometimes it was not. Knowing that I would have to fill the basins with water, I contemplated whether to take a warm shower now or possibly a cold one later. Two water basins sat in the tub; one of them was already partially full.

My stomach growled. My grandmother usually woke up the same time as the rooster, so I assumed breakfast would be made. Searching the kitchen for food, I saw a pot of beef kidneys. I could pair it with the hard dough bread on the dining room table and cut a piece of a pear, what the U.S. refers to as an avocado. I prefer to eat my meals in front of the T.V. There was no cable or internet. Instead, there was a large stack of DVDs that we had brought over the years from America. Many of the DVDs weather over time due to the salty air. Finishing breakfast, I decided to take the shower now.

I filled the basins with warm water. Using a rag and a soap bar, I scrubbed till suds formed. Pouring some water from the basin onto me as a pre-wash, I continued to bathe myself. For the final rinse, I poured all the water on my back and front. Refreshed, I went outside. My grandmother stood in the front yard. The area was gated and topped with barbed wire to prevent thieves from stealing produce from the land. She asked, “Do you want a june plum?” I was a little hesitant since she was standing where my mom had been stung by a wasp in the chest. My grandmother plucked it from the tree and handed it to me, I proceeded to take a bite into the sweet, dense fruit. Some of the eight dogs had decided joined us around front. I only knew two of their names, Pepper and Rufus.

Walking around back, the land stretched, a few cows roamed, a chicken coop was in the back, and the whole backyard was a mountain. My grandfather came down from top with his machete and some green coconuts in hand. “Jessie, you want a coconut?” He would cut off the tops, and I’d drink straight from the shell. With a spoon, I scraped the jelly. I never understood why U.S. supermarkets only had brown coconuts. Enjoying the sweltering sun, I stared at the outdoor fire pit that my grandmother preferred over the stove. It wasn’t good for her back though. With a full smile, I smelled the salt in the air. I peered over looking at the road, which was thin, curvy, and covered in potholes. All my neighbors were my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I loved this place. The beach was only 20 mins away. My favorite beef and cheese patties were in Lucy. This is my home. This is Cave Valley in Hanover, Jamaica, in which people from Hanover and Westmoreland argue about who lives in the bush.

I have two homes. My other home is the U.S. I was born in Trenton, NJ. Growing up, I lived with my cousins. For the first couple years, I didn’t know how to talk, which is crazy since I talk all the time now. I did not know how to form words or sentences, so I learned from my cousins, who were born in Jamaica. I spoke with an accent, specifically the Patois dialect. I later learned code switching. In the black community in the U.S., we talk about code switching in regards to using cultural vernacular compared to “white” speech. For me, code switching had three parts. When surrounded by other Caribbeans, specifically Jamaicans, I switched naturally into Patois. Sometimes it just slips out, and I hardly notice.

Since my mother and father split up when I was younger, being a single mom, my mother would leave me with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. Before my grandparents moved back to Jamaica, while working in banking, my mom and grandmother ran a cleaning service. My grandfather, on the other hand, had been a gardener for Mrs. Bonner. All of our family friends were also Caribbean immigrants either from Jamaica, Haiti, Trinidad, or Guyana. Influenced by this environment, I knew very little about American history and culture, particularly African-American culture. My understanding was limited to what was taught in classrooms.

Car rides were filled with cassette tapes and CDs of Bob Marley, Lady Saw, Shaggy, Sean Paul, and Tanya Stephenson. Occasionally, my mom would play Mariah Carey and Yolanda Adams. My exposure to other forms of music was due to the radio, MTV, and schoolmates. Although, my closest friends growing up were also first-gen Americans, either Haitian, Guatemalan, Colombian, Pakistani, or Nigerian, who were either born here or came when very young. Many of their families had to restart their lives hoping to attain the American Dream. Many of them just wanted the access to opportunity and education or to live in non-corrupt governments and a striving economy. Sadly, some came with higher-ed degrees that became invalidated once they arrived here. Others fear deportation and separation from their families as becoming a U.S. citizen is a timely and costly process. A lot of them hustle doing perhaps five things at once. Some of them become lazy because the idea that America has money growing on trees was an illusion.

Through all of this, I remember, I am American. There are privileges and opportunities that I have simply due to being a citizen of this first-world country. And there are many times when I forget about Americentrism and colonialism and how the U.S. benefits from the economic collapse of developing or third-world countries, like my other home. I forget that my complaints are first-world problems, and there are other times I don’t understand U.S. issues because I can only see things from a third-world perspective.

My aunt tells me, “You are not Jamaican. You are American!” Each Thanksgiving, I go to one of my uncle’s house. His wife is Trinidadian. We have jerk turkey, oxtails, curry chicken, curry goat, roti, and mac and cheese. The first time I had collard greens was in college. All the political figures I knew were Caribbean and Jamaican activists other than Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. Every Olympic game, I rooted for Jamaica or anyone black as Issa Rae said. The hard part about this statement is not that I have an issue with being American. And I wouldn’t call myself Jamaican either since there’s so much that I don’t understand. The hardest part is feeling like you don’t belong anywhere.

Nowadays, my grandmother tells me how smart I am and how proud of me she is. She tells me about the time when reading, writing, and arithmetic were the only things taught in school. I look at her face and my mom’s face, and I look at all the sacrifices they have made, so I could be right here and have the dream they desperately wanted. I’m reminded how truly grateful I am as well as the pressures that come with it. From poverty to immigration in an uncharted territory, I could never imagine the difficulty. I am a person of two, different worlds. And although I don’t quite understand either one of them, I couldn’t be any happier because they both make up who I am, a first-gen American, a Jamaican-American.

Thank you for reading this! This is one of the most personal pieces I ever written, and I wanted to share this not for me, but I believe many first-gen Americans may be able to relate to this experience. I hope that you stay prideful of who you are, whether you’re first-gen or not. Just remember, your existence is beautiful no matter where you’re from. Much love ❤ Jessica Innis

Jessica Innis

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